Like A Future in Your Back Pocket
by Calculated Artificiality
Summary: This story follows moments in Rayna & Deacon's relationship: their first autumn apart, their fourth date, their last fight, the aftermath, and a present-day (from season 1) moment that asks both of them to remember it all.
1. Chapter 1

_I wish you were here._  
 _Autumn is the hardest season;_  
 _the leaves have all fallen, and they fell like they were fallin' in love with the ground,_  
 _and the trees are naked and lonely._  
 _I keep trying to tell them new leaves'll come around in the spring,_  
 _But you can't tell trees those things;  
_ _they're like me, t_ _hey just stand there and don't listen.  
_ _I wish you were here._

 _-Andrea Gibson, Photograph_

* * *

 _Maybe this is how it ends_ , he thought, pulling his coat tighter around him. The air was crisp, October making its presence known by the cold front that came in early this year. Deacon Claybourne walked down the street, the leaves crunching under his boots, leaving stains on the sidewalks as they crumbled under his step. A few more hurled themselves from their branches, and fluttered in front of his face before hitting the pavement.

 _I know how you feel_ , he thought, and then shook his head, determined to think of something else. Anything else.

He realized, however, that it was futile, when the colors on the ground him reminded him only of her hair, the sky reminded him only of her eyes, and the empty branches reminded him only of his heart now that they were apart.

He shut his eyes, and heard her words the morning after one of the biggest fights they'd ever had, that August humidity finding its way into her voice as it swirled around him, nearly suffocating him.

" _Deacon, I can't do this anymore."_

" _Baby, please." He reached for her hand._

 _She stepped back, "No." Her lip trembled when she spoke, "I_ really _can't do this anymore."_

He opened his eyes, the wind burned his face, made his eyes water with the chill. He longed to have that August day back, to take her face in his hands and make her stay. Bruise her lips with his until she realized there was no place else she'd rather be, that of all the things in the world, this was the only thing she _could_ do anymore.

But he'd let her leave, his anger from the previous night not snuffed completely, he'd let her leave. He wondered now how long his dreams would replay that moment, how often he'd have to relive the memory of her back walking away from him. In his dreams, he tries to go after her, but he never can—his feet are always stuck to the ground. Some nights, he's wearing lead boots, and his legs are so heavy he can't lift them to follow her. Sometimes, they're cemented to the spot. Sometimes, they're buried in the ground, and he's a tree destined to beat itself bloody every four seasons, waiting for her to return.

He screams himself hoarse in his dreams— _Rayna! —_ he screams, but she can't hear him, or she doesn't turn around, the specifics don't really matter.

If he were lucky, the dreams would stop soon, and he could stop sleeping fitfully, stop being scared to close his eyes at night.

Deacon Claybourne was many things, but lucky wasn't one of them.

He'd tried to call her the first week in September, and the second, and the third, and now it was autumn, and he'd almost forgotten what her voice sounded like not over a recording.

It was their favorite season together—autumn—for the last 11 years they'd spent their autumns together, in various states of dress and undress, in various states of relationship, but always, always together. They'd carved pumpkins, drank cider, walked hand in hand through corn mazes, the electricity between them burning straight through their gloves, not scared of anything that popped out at them. They'd just look at each other, and one of them would squeeze the other's hand. Their greatest fear, they both knew, though they'd never said it out loud, could not be embodied by some pre-teen in a mask. _Don't let go_.

In 11 autumns, they'd sipped hot chocolate in front of the fire, written songs in front of the fire, told stories in front of the fire, explored each others bodies in front of the fire, just the soft glow to guide them. They'd fought in front of the fire—just twice—and made up twice, and once more for good measure.

Deacon wondered now if he'd ever see another fire without thinking of her.

 _There are plenty of fish in the sea_ , people had said to him. So many iterations of that sentiment had been sent his way since word got out—he knew it had when people started stopping their hushed conversations when they saw him—that he could scarcely keep track of the idioms. Coleman, to his credit, had been the nicest about it. Beverly, on the other hand, had not been.

People wanted to help. People thought they were helping, so Deacon just smiled weakly, nodded his head and clenched his teeth, because people weren't damn fish; and, anyway, in his world, one problem remained: oceans didn't even _exist_ without Rayna Jaymes.

He opened the door to his cabin, flicked on the light, then the heater. He heard it groan to life, and he sat on the couch and rubbed his hands together, waiting for the warmth to circulate. When it finally did, he took off his coat and picked up his guitar, his fingers pressing the strings into the wood until it hurt. He played a chord, and then another, and stared at the phone.

 _I won't call her_ , he told himself, but even as the words danced across his mind, he knew they were a lie. He would drink hot coffee, write a crappy song to salvage for parts at a later date, and try not to think of her. He would, he knew, fail miserably.

And so, with the autumn wind howling outside, he would pick up the phone, dial her number, and wrap the cord around his finger as it rang, the faint echo coming back at him down the line. He would listen to her voice on the recording— _leave a message_ —and he would smile, because no matter how bad things got, hearing her voice made him smile; then he would speak after the tone the thought that consumed his mind. By some small miracle, his voice wouldn't break as he whispered the five words he would say to Rayna Jaymes if he knew they would be the very last ones she ever heard from him:

 _I wish you were here._


	2. Chapter 2

_I've been missing you like crazy,  
I've been hazy-eyed staring at the bottom of my glass again,  
Thinking of that time when it was so full it was like we were tapping the moon for moonshine,  
_ _Or sticking straws into the center of the sun and sipping like Icarus would forever kiss the bullets from our guns_

 _-Andrea Gibson, Photograph_

* * *

Rayna heard his gravelly voice coming through the answering machine, and tried desperately to stop the shiver that coursed through her body. But, she never could stop her reaction to his presence, even if his only presence was a warbling voice through an answering machine. It shouldn't sound like him, it should sound distorted and odd, but it didn't. It sounded like Deacon.

 _I wish you were here_.

And then the beep signaled the end of the message.

Rayna wrapped her hands around the mug in her hands, stealing whatever warmth she could from it. She picked it up and took a sip, the warm liquid coating her mouth— _chocolate_.

She tried to stop the memories from coming, but she knew it was no use. Not tonight.

Suddenly, she was 17, and back on their fourth date. He'd been so proud of himself: _Mini-golf and milkshakes_! He announced, as he held his truck door open for her, the sun setting behind him turning the sky a most beautiful shade of orange.

She laughed, sliding inside. "Is this a 1950s movie?" She teased, after he'd started driving. "What's after that? A sock hop?"

He waggled his eyebrows, and leaned his hand across the arm rest and grabbed her hand. "If you're lucky."

She laughed, throwing her head back against the head rest, and squeezing his hand, "We'll see about that."

They arrived at the mini-golf course, and made their way up to a burly attendant— _Leon_ according to his nametag—behind a little window. It was a Wednesday evening, and the park was quiet, the advantages of not having a normal working schedule. The attendant huffed, told them the course rules.

" _Who knew there were_ rules?" Rayna whispered to Deacon as the attendant turned to get their equipment.

Deacon laughed, "Let's break every single one of 'em, baby." He winked at her as the attendant placed their clubs and golf balls on the counter. Deacon picked them up, and grabbed Rayna's hand, leading her to the start of the courses.

"Which one do you want?" He held his hand out, "Red, or blue?"

She reached out, "I'll take blue," she took the ball and bounced it.

"Alright, which course should we do?" He surveyed all four courses, reading their descriptions aloud to her. When he finished, he looked at her, "So, scenic and easy? Or scenic and moderate? Or scenic and hard?"

Rayna smiled at him, "I've never been afraid of a hard course." She headed for course 4.

Deacon chuckled, following behind her, "No, you certainly haven't."

They were halfway through the course, half-heartedly keeping score with the little pencil, wholeheartedly enjoying each other's company when they heard the rumble of thunder in the distance.

Rayna looked at the sky, "Uh oh," She watched the clouds in the sky move in, visible thanks to the brightness of the moon.

Deacon smiled, lining up his shot. "May in Nashville." He shrugged, and it began to sprinkle.

Rayna grinned, and shrugged back, "I'm not afraid of getting a little wet."

Deacon's head snapped up, and a slow grin spread across his face, "That right?"

"Nope." Standing behind the hole, she turned her head to the side, considering, "I'll tell you what. You make a hole in one here, I'll take you over behind that windmill and show you just how _not afraid_ I am."

Deacon readied his shot again, his eyes searching out the best path to the hole at the end of the green. He pulled his putter back and gently hit the ball, watching it careen gently down the slope, hit the rock at the back, and gather speed toward the hole. He watched as it made a half circle around the hole, and stopped about a foot away.

"Damn." He said, eyeing Rayna.

He watched as Rayna reached her boot out and slid the little red ball into the hole, the sound echoing as the ball settled in.

"Looks like a hole in one to me." She smiled as he joined her.

"Oh yeah?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Yep." She grabbed his hand, and led him towards the windmill, the multi-colored lights of the golf course cast themselves on the white windmill, reflected it back to them.

When they were behind it, she turned around and looped her arms around his neck and brought her lips close to his.

"Nice shot." She whispered, a gleam in her eye.

Then, she closed the distance, bringing her lips to his. She sighed as she felt his lips respond to her. He opened his mouth against hers, and she slid her tongue inside his mouth, enjoying the warmth of his tongue. She buried her hands in his hair, her fingertips curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. She made a little noise in the back of her throat, and Deacon responded by pulling her body close to him, taking control of the kiss. He deepened it, and kissed her hungrily, his desire for her evident.

She pulled away to get a better angle, and breathed 'Deacon,' before he kissed her roughly again. He bit her lip, and then pulled away to look at her. "God, you're beautiful." He whispered, his voice quiet, reverent. Her mouth was swollen, her hair wild from his fingers running through it.

He leaned in to kiss her again, and as his lips touched hers, the sky broke open.

The warm spring rain fell fast and hard around them, and they pulled away, looked up at the sky, and laughed. Deacon slid his hand into her hair again, and pulled her to him, his mouth claiming hers again.

The water soaked them, but they kept kissing, their hands exploring each other. Her hands slid across his back, feeling the muscles ripple under her touch. His hands slid up her sides, and his right hand closed around her breast. He felt her nipple through the wet fabric, and he ran his thumb over it.

She pulled away and gasped his name, her head lolling back as she pressed her hips into him. He brought his mouth to her neck and began kissing her there, his hand still playing with her breast through her shirt, teasing her nipple.

Suddenly, they heard someone clearing his throat. Deacon froze, and Rayna's eyes snapped open. Slowly, they turned to see Leon, his burly figure housed under a big black umbrella that was still nearly too small for him.

Deacon quickly dropped his hand from Rayna's breast, and they stepped apart.

"Guess you guys didn't listen to the rules." Leon said, his accent thick. "Number three was 'No flagrant PDA.'" He stared at them sternly, but Deacon could see the hint of a smile forming on his face, "Number 5 was we close if it rains, so y'all are gonna have to go somewhere else to, uh…" He cleared his throat again, "Finish your game." Leon turned and walked away, taking their clubs and golf balls with him.

When he was gone, Deacon and Rayna dissolved into fits of laughter. Deacon pressed a quick kiss to her lips, and then grabbed her by the hand, leading her back to his truck, the putting green sloshing under the weight of their boots as they went.

When they were safely back in his truck, Deacon pulled a sweatshirt out from his small backseat. Rayna took it, and he looked away while she peeled off her soaked shirt, removed her bra, and threw the sweatshirt on.

"Okay," She whispered when she was done. Deacon turned to look at her, and then leaned in to kiss her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Leon walking to his truck, and laughed. Rayna followed his eyes, and started laughing. "We better get out of here, don't want to break anymore rules." Her eyes were sparkling.

"Up next, _milkshakes_!" He said, putting the truck into gear and driving off.

They were sitting at the counter, perched on sparkly red vinyl barstools, two silver cups in front of them. The rain outside had tapered off right as they pulled up to the diner, but the place was quiet, except a few people huddled in booths on the perimeter of the building.

They sipped their milkshakes—strawberry for her, chocolate for him—and talked. Years from now, she wouldn't remember what they talked about, she would only remember the way he looked at her, and the way she felt: happy for the first time in a very, very long time; certain that nothing would ever go wrong for her again. She felt so far away from sadness in that moment, that she briefly wondered if she'd ever felt it at all.

"Is this normal enough for you?" He asked, when they were slurping up the last of their milkshakes.

She smiled and nodded, "Yes."

"I _think_ this is what normal people do on dates," He said, throwing a $10 down, and grabbing her by the hand as he stood up.

"It _must_ be," She laughed, following behind him. "Make out on mini-golf courses and get mini-lectures from big men named Leon."

He laughed as he opened the truck door for her, "So, that's what we've been missing."

They drove to a park where he unloaded his guitar from the cab, and led her to a picnic. He sat on the table, opened the case, and strapped the guitar to himself. One foot hanging off the edge of the table, one foot resting on the bench, propping the guitar up, he tuned it.

Rayna inhaled sharply, "It still smells like rain. I love the smell of rain." She said, settling in next to him.

"Yeah?" He played a few notes on the guitar, and made up a silly song about the rain, Rayna harmonizing in the background, adding a verse at the end.

Rayna chuckled, "That might be our first hit."

Deacon smiled, "Might be."

Rayna stood, reached out and took his guitar, lifting it over his head and placing it back in the case. She brought the lid down and snapped it closed.

She put her arms around his shoulders, her body facing his. She ran her fingernails through his hair, "Thank you for tonight," She whispered, her words soft and quiet.

He moved to speak, but her lips were on his before he could get the words out. She kissed him tenderly, exploring his mouth with hers.

Deacon brought his hands to her back, caressing her softly through his sweatshirt. She tasted like strawberry, and the future.

She pulled back, "You taste like chocolate," Her whisper smelled sweet, and she ran her tongue across his lips.

He chuckled, stood, and spun her around so she was against the picnic table. She hopped up, so she could sit on it, as he leaned in to her ear. "You taste like strawberry," He said, his breath hot in her ear. He flicked his tongue out, caressing her ear with it, "I want more," He whispered, and she shivered.

He returned to her lips, and kissed her softly. He gently eased her down until she was on her back on the picnic table, and he was next to her, half of his body pressed against her.

He kissed her deeply, tenderly, and then he pulled back to watch her, noting the steady rise and fall of her chest as she looked back at him, the dim lights in the park coupled with the moonlight in the now-clear sky guiding them.

Deacon was resting on his elbow, and he brought one hand to her face, "I love you, Ray." He was quiet, as though this was new information he was learning, though part of him suspected he'd known it his whole life.

He watched her eyes cloud over with wetness, and she smiled at him, bringing a hand to her face, smoothing over the stubble, "I love you too, Deacon."

He leaned down to kiss her again, and she placed his hand slightly under the hem of her sweatshirt—he smiled against her mouth, and then inched his hand up, his fingers tracing over the soft, smooth skin of her stomach until he got to her breast. The skin was impossibly soft, and his fingers moved against her skin—she sighed against his mouth, and then slipped her tongue inside, tasting chocolate, and her first love.

The memory stopped there, it had to. She wasn't sure if she could handle remembering it all, not tonight.

Rayna swirled the remainder of the hot chocolate, watching it coat the bottom of her mug. She ran her tongue across her lips, and wasn't surprised when she felt the tears come. She wonders now if she would go back to that spring day and change it if she knew that tasting chocolate would forever remind her of tasting Deacon.

Somehow, she knows she wouldn't. She reaches out and presses a button on the answering machine; his voice floats up into the silence.

 _I wish you were here_.

She closes her eyes and fights against the tears, but eventually they come anyway. She never could pretend she didn't miss him. She presses the button again.

 _I wish you were here_.

She thinks back again to that night, remembers herself arching her back on that picnic table, leaning into his touch, his mouth hot and heavy on her body. She remembers sipping milkshakes with him, playing mini-golf, marveling at an unparalleled sense of joy she'd have sworn was never-ending.

She presses the button again, once more, before she has to delete the message.

 _I wish we were there_. She says, her voice mingling with his into the silence of her apartment, the words wrapping around her the way his body did that night.

 _I wish we were there_.


End file.
